Trivial as the incident was, Albert Zorn often recalled it in later
years and mused upon it even at an age when man no longer cherishes
memories of early boyhood. How could he forget it? At the time it was
momentous, overshadowing all else.
On his way to school that memorable morning he rambled dreamily through
the narrow streets of Gunsdorf, a thousand fantasies in his boyish
brain. It seemed as if Alladin’s lamp had been rubbed. He was to live in
a castle, instead of in the modest quarters back of his father’s humble
shop on Schmallgasse and wear a velvet coat and lacquered top-boots with
silver spurs! What else would his father do with all that money? From
what he had gleaned of his parents’ conversation they had received word
from Amsterdam that a kinsman had died there and left them a fortune
running into millions.
He was soon approaching the river near which was located the Franciscan
cloister that housed his school. The swiftly flowing stream came
tumbling down over rock and boulder and unseen rivulets gurgled
mysteriously beneath glacial crusts in shadowy places. For it was at the
beginning of April when there were still clinging remnants of the long
hoary winter. Albert sauntered slowly, wistfully, his daydreams,
stimulated by the sudden expectancy, commingling with the awakened
sentiments of spring.
“Good morning, Al—ber’,” that imp, Shorty Fritz, welcomed him as he
entered the classroom.
Albert’s air-castles were rudely shaken and his face grew livid. Fritz
had drawled his name in the screechy voice of Hans the ragman, who
wandered from door to door every morning, preceded by his donkey, which
he coaxed to greater celerity by the mystic cry that sounded like
“Al—ber’—Al—ber’”, the real meaning of which was only known to Hans
and the drudging beast.
Ignoring the tantalizing donkey-call, he walked up to his seat, dropped
his books and remained standing moodily, his small bluish eyes narrowed,
his long fair hair falling unevenly over his neck and forehead.
“O, Fritz, what’s the difference between Balaam’s ass and a zebra?” Long
Kunz, another classmate, called across the room.
“Balaam’s ass spoke Hebrew and the zebra speaks Zebrew,” returned Fritz
with mock gravity.
Albert was still busying himself with his books, swallowing lumps and
feigning indifference, but the allusions to his racial extraction
pierced him like a dagger. He had heard this witticism before and it had
never failed to lacerate his sensitive heart.
“Then what’s the difference between Hanse’s donkey and his namesake,
Al—ber’?”
“None that I can see,” was the retort.
Still the victim of these sallies refrained from combat. Though usually
not given to curbing his tongue—and his tongue was as sharp as that of
any one in the class—he would not bandy words with his arch-enemies
this morning. There was hope in the boy’s heart that the forthcoming
inheritance would soon liberate him from these surroundings altogether.
Presently Christian Lutz’s tender arm was around his shoulders.
Christian was his favorite classmate and always took his part in his
encounters with those vexatious youngsters. While Albert was the quicker
with his tongue, Christian was more ready with his fist.
“I have heard your father has become a millionaire,” Christian said.
“Who’s left him this fortune—your father’s father?”
“Not my father’s father,” laughed Albert, the remembrance of the
inheritance at once banishing the momentary bitterness from his heart.
“My father’s father had no fortune to leave—he was a poor little Jew,
with long whiskers as his only belongings.”
Though uttered in a soft, jocular voice, and only intended for
Christian’s ears, it reached those of Fritz.
“Ha—ha!” he tittered. “Did you hear that, boys? Al—ber’s grandfather
was a poor little Jew with long whiskers.”
“A poor little Jew with long whiskers!”
“A poor little Jew with long whiskers!”
“A poor little Jew with long whiskers!”
This refrain caught up by Long Kunz was accompanied by intermittent
beating of the desks with drum-like regularity.
In a moment the classroom was in a wild uproar. Whistling, catcalls,
imitations of braying asses, of squealing pigs, of crowing cocks, of
bleating sheep, of neighing horses filled the air. The boys scampered
and jumped and flung inkstands at the blackboard and kicked at the
chairs to Fritz’s rhythmic tune of “A poor little Jew with long
whiskers!”
“Silence!”
It was the intimidating voice of Father Scher.
The youngsters, frightened by the sudden entrance of the schoolmaster,
made a dash for their seats and in their mad rush capsized the benches
that came down with resounding crashes.
“Order!” shouted the schoolmaster.
Father Scher stood at his desk, his right arm raised menacingly, his
smooth face crimson with rage, his eyes fairly popping out of their
sockets, his saucer-like skull-cap shoved to the back of his shaven
head.
Ominous silence, terror in every countenance.
The priest’s eyes shifted from side to side, taking in the overturned
benches, the scattered text-books, the ink-bespattered blackboard.
“Who started this?”
No answer. The black-robed instructor took a step forward.
“Who started this?”
Restive shuffling of feet was the only response.
“I’ll flay the hide off everyone of you if you don’t tell me at once who
started this disorder,” the angered teacher cried.
“Al—ber! Al—ber!” Hanse’s voice came from outside. It sounded like a
voice in a deep forest. An irrepressible snicker ran through the room.
“Who did this—who did this?”
Scher was moving along the aisle, searching guilt in every countenance.
Reaching Albert he halted and glowered at him. There was still mist in
the boy’s eyes and his lips were twitching.
“So it’s you, is it? You know what to expect and are whimpering ahead of
time, hey? You are always the source of all mischief in the class.” His
steady eyes were peering at the boy’s agitated face. Then he added, “Now
if you didn’t start this, who did?”
The insinuation increased the bitterness in the boy’s heart. He was
biting the lining of his lip to hold his tears in check, but not a sound
escaped him.
“Won’t you answer me?” The master’s voice was threatening.
Much as he hated Long Kunz and Shorty Fritz his pride forbade him to
betray them.
Silently, grimly, the infuriated priest turned around and walked back
toward the blackboard, the swishing of his cassock striking against his
heels registering his measured, determined step. To the right of the
blackboard stood a large, heavy, gnarled yellowish stick, an ever
present warning to the class. Gripping the rattan firmly in his hand the
priest faced about and retraced his steps, presently standing in front
of Albert.
“Well, Albert?”
The instructor’s stormy blue eyes were riveted upon the boy and the
heavy cane was suspended in the air.
Albert only tightened his lips more firmly.
“Speak!”
Scher’s voice trembled with wrath.
A scarcely perceptible smile appeared on the lower part of the boy’s
face, which however did net escape the tantalized master.
Bang!
The stick came down with a crashing blow, but as Albert quickly turned
aside it struck the table nearby and broke.
Baffled by defeat Father Scher grew more angered and swung the broken
end of the cane up and down blindly, striking at his victim until he was
exhausted, panting audibly.
Brandishing the fragment in his hand for a final blow, he missed his aim
and his body swung around, sending his skull-cap to the floor. As he
stooped to pick up his headgear—his shaven crown exposed to the gaze of
the irreverent youngsters—the awed tension vanished and derisive
laughter broke loose. In spite of his pain Albert’s jeering voice
sounded louder than all the rest. His little eyes snapped diabolic
mockery in his glittering pupils. From the rear of the room came the
mimicking of a grunting sucking pig.
Confused and out of breath, Scher turned from side to side and his
rolling eyes finally focused upon the grimacing face of that ragamuffin,
Long Kunz.
“Take this!” the master aspirated and gave the boy a sharp cut. Kunz
emitted a shriek that rang throughout the cloister.
“I didn’t do anything,” he wailed, scratching the smarting spot on his
left shoulder—“it was he that started all the trouble.”
“Who is he?” demanded the instructor.
He brandished the cane, but without letting it fall on Kunz.
“Who is he?” he repeated.
“Al—ber’” Kunz mischievously piped up, drying his tears.
“So it is you—hey? I thought it couldn’t be anyone else.”
He turned upon Albert anew, the scorn of vengeance in his metallic
voice.
“He said his grandfather was a little Jew with long whiskers and made
everybody laugh,” added Kunz, seeking to curry the teacher’s favor.
“Hold your tongue!” Scher silenced the informer.
Then, again turning upon Albert, he grabbed him by his coat collar and
dragged him to the corner of the room, showering blows as he pulled the
boy after him.
“I only said this in jest to Christian and they began on me,” Albert
cried defiantly and broke away from the priest.
The master walked back to his desk, breathing hard and muttering
unintelligible syllables.
“Attention!” he presently called and rapped for order.
His blanched face, his piercing eyes, the skull-cap set awry on his
shaven crown, the lead-edged ruler in his hand, made the class realize
that he was no longer to be trifled with. There had been strange rumors
about the ferocity of the master, so when he gave the order to fall in
line for divine service every pupil had his left foot forward ready to
march.
Albert was the last in line. For although his mother had had him excused
from religious exercises, he always joined the class in the morning
prayers. Not that he prayed or participated in the singing of hymns, but
he loved the ceremonies of the cloister. There was something in the
smell pervading the old stone walls, in the reverberating tones of the
organ, in the soft light sifting in through the stained glass windows,
in the statuary and effigies—everything about the monastic church
filled him with mystery and with an indefinable sensuousness that, while
it repelled him, caught his fancy and stirred in his soul a longing he
was unable to fathom. The sound and color and scent and mystery of the
church aroused in him the same emotion he felt when reading about Greek
gods and goddesses. The chimes of the bells, the rich colors of the
clergy’s robes at high mass, the pealing organ and the melodies of the
choir—everything connected with the Franciscan cloister was so
different from his father’s church, which seemed so colorless and held
nothing to stir his imagination.
But no sooner did the chapel services commence than his mind began to
wander. The prayers were meaningless to him even at that early age. The
Catholic liturgy was distasteful to him. For boy that he was—scarcely
more than eleven—he had already reasoned on matters of faith, and he
had heard at home many a discussion about Voltaire and Rousseau, and of
Kant’s _Kritik der reinen Vernunft_, which was then debated in every
house of culture.
That morning more than on other mornings his brain was tortured by a
thousand cross-currents. So many ideas crowded in upon his wearied brain
that no single one was clear. They were all in confusion. The
inheritance, his classmates’ insults, the flogging—they all seemed fast
scudding clouds.
On his way out of school, Albert lagged behind under the high arches of
the cloister, rancor in his breast. Tears of mortification were in his
eyes.
He soon found himself before the tall image of the Christ which stood on
a high pedestal under these arches. It was carved of wood, the face
hideously distorted, the head hanging limply like a wilted sunflower,
and a smear of blood between the projecting ribs was intended as a
realistic touch. The morning sun, slanting under the vaults, fell upon
the nails driven through the palms and feet and enhanced the ghastly
figure. An unwelcome thought shot through the boy’s brain. No, no, he
could not believe it; he could not believe what Father Scher had told
the class about the Crucified. No, it could not be true. His people
could not have stabbed the man who wore the crown of thorns and driven
nails through his hand and feet. He knew his father and mother, who were
most tender-hearted, and his grandfather, Doctor Hollmann, and his Uncle
Joseph, both of whom had laid their lives down in their efforts to save
the people in the last plague.
“They are lying—they are lying,” he muttered under his breath, almost
sobbing—“all of them are lying—the priest and his books and Kunz and
Fritz. Only the likes of them could mock and spit and torment and then
put the blame upon others—”
He suddenly halted. He remembered the Hebrew school, which he attended
after the hours at the cloister.
“_Pokad—pokadto—pokadli_—” he began to mumble the conjugation of the
Hebrew verb he was then learning. Foreign as the language was to him he
learned it much more easily than “the language of the dead Romans”, or
even with greater facility than “the language of the Gods”, as he was
wont to call Greek.
The Hebrew school was in a narrow alley back of Schmallgasse. It was a
small square chamber which served as a school room by day and as a
living room for the teacher and his family at night. It had been
recently whitewashed—Passover was coming—and the Mizrach (a picture of
Jerusalem with the Wailing Wall in the foreground) hung conspicuously
upon the wall facing east—a tawny, fly-specked patch on a background of
bluish white. Save for a long rectangular table flanked by unpainted
wooden benches, and the teacher’s stool at the head of it, the room was
bare.
Although he often mimicked the long bearded teacher, there was gladness
in Albert’s heart, a gladness accompanied by a feeling of peace and
security, as he wended his way to this school. No one mocked him here,
no one imitated the ragman’s donkey-call. Here his very name gave him
added distinction. Here he was a little prince, whom everybody loved and
whose every flippant remark was carried from mouth to mouth, accompanied
by convulsive laughter.
When he entered the Hebrew school the class was chanting the Shir
H’Shirim, that exquisite lyric poem known as the Song of Songs. For it
was Friday, when the class sang the Song of Solomon in the quaint,
traditional melody of the Babylonians. The teacher, at the head of the
table, was swaying his body from side to side, leading his class in his
strangely tuneful sing-song.
Albert slid into his seat and joined in the chanting, though he
perceived the furtive glances of his classmates, denoting even greater
respects than ever. For they had all heard of the rumored inheritance.
“‘Look not upon me because I am black,’” they sang lustily from the
Hebrew text. “‘Because the sun hath looked upon me; my mother’s children
were angry with me and made me keeper of the vineyard, but my own
vineyard I have not kept.’”
While his lips were lisping the liquid syllables of the poetical
allegory his mind wandered to the sunny land of Canaan, the cradle of
his people.
A pause followed; the teacher emitted a soft “oi” and soon proceeded
with the next chapter.
“‘I am the rose of Sharon, the lily of the valley,’” the class struck up
in lively sing-song, “‘As the lily is among the thorns so is my love
among the daughters . . . Stay me with flagons, comfort me with apples,
for I am lovesick. For, lo, the winter is past, the rain is over and
gone.’”
His flitting fancy was not following the words, but the pictures they
conjured up in his brain. He was catching his breath, his spirits were
astir. There was languor in his being. His sorrows were gone, the
enchanting Song of Solomon caught his soul in its dulcet waves and
rocked him into a trance . . .